Brethren of the Coast Box Set 2

by Barbara Devlin

  “Because I love her, as she loves me, I acquiesced to her demands.” Dirk clucked his tongue. “Our intimacy was superb, unlike any I had ever enjoyed. And it was all I could do to focus on her needs. Summoning the patience of a saint, I brought her to release and breached her harbor, as she savored completion. It worked perfectly, and we have benefited from an abiding ardor, ever since.”

  Filing the information for future use, Dalton contemplated his next move. He desperately wanted to aid Daphne, but he could not broach the subject without trampling what little trust they had forged. For good or ill, he had to retrench and wait for his wife to come to him. And when she vouchsafed her secrets, he would accept them with unimpaired sangfroid.

  “I appreciate your frankness, brother.” Dalton downed the last of his brandy and set the balloon on a nearby table. “But I should—”

  “Am I intruding on anything of significance?” Rebecca strolled into the study. “Oh, please, do not stand on my account, my sweet lord.” As she pushed Dirk back into his chair, she peered at Dalton. “Your wife made the loveliest gift. What a thoughtful woman you married.”

  “Thank you.” To his embarrassment, the burn of a blush seared his cheeks, and he shuffled his feet. “Daphne is a kind and most generous lady.”

  “Becca, what are you about?” Dirk narrowed his stare, as she stepped about his legs and eased to his lap. “I should see Dalton to the door.”

  “He knows his way out, as he grew up in this house.” She wound her arms about Dirk’s neck. “And I would take a short nap, as we have an hour before the dinner bell sounds. Would you refuse me?”

  “Never.” Dirk nipped her nose. “Brother, I bid you farewell and much luck.”

  “Good evening.” He sketched a bow and headed for the exit. In the hall, he turned to close the oak panel and discovered Dirk and Rebecca sharing an amazingly thorough kiss. Polite decorum demanded he avert his gaze, yet he found their tender exchange riveting.

  How he envied their reciprocal passion, and he wanted that with Daphne.

  In mere seconds, Dalton collected his curricle and steered for home and his wife. Thoughts of their prearranged appointment to partake of their meal in her sitting room filled him with anticipation, and fiery zeal rode hard in its wake. Minutes later, riding a wave of fervor, he skipped up the steps and entered his residence.

  “Where is Mrs. Randolph?” he inquired of his butler, as he doffed his hat, coat, and gloves, and adjusted his cravat.

  “Mrs. Randolph asked me to convey her regrets, as she is unwell and unable to keep her commitments, tonight.” Merton bowed. “Shall I tell Cook to prepare a tray, sir?”

  Overwhelming disappointment settled as a lead ball in his belly, and Dalton grimaced. “No, as I am not hungry. That will be all, Merton.”

  Despondent, Dalton trudged upstairs and halted on the landing. Upon their arrival from Portsea, his bride had vacated the large chamber that adjoined his and moved to a small guestroom at the other end of the hall. At first, he had wanted to rain holy hell, but he had said nothing, after recalling the debacle that had been his wedding night.

  Carrying a candlestick, he tiptoed into her quarters and found her asleep. The room was quiet, save the ticking of the mantel clock and his heartbeat, which seemed to keep rhythm. To the undiscerning observer, nothing appeared amiss. But what struck him was her tearstained face. She had been crying, but—why? What had happened? And why had she excluded him from her anguish? Sitting at the edge of the mattress, he adjusted the covers, pulling them to her chin. Daphne vented a soft sob indicative of some inner torment, and he ached to console her. Hours had passed before he left her.

  #

  “Brothers, we are gathered here to welcome two new Nautionnier knights into our distinguished order. Captain George de Vere, Viscount Huntingdon and my nephew, and Captain Lucien Wentworth, sixth Earl of Calvert and Rebecca’s elder brother.” Admiral Douglas perched at the edge of his desk. “Despite the Treaty of Fontainebleau, the restoration of the Bourbon monarchy and Louis XVIII, and the exile of Napoleon to the island of Elba, Wellington does not believe we have seen the last of French aggression, so we increase our ranks to serve His Majesty. To that end, I anticipate a plethora of assignments from the Lord High Admiral, any day.”

  “Hear, hear.” Blake slapped his thigh. “Now pass the brandy, and let us commence the celebrations.”

  “Knights, at the ready.” Damian corralled the veteran seamen. “Love, honor, and devotion were the beginning of our Order. Bonds of kinship and friendship, all-important. We uphold these principles embrace for embrace, desire for desire, for one, for all. For King and Country we stand, for love and comradeship we live.”

  In unison, the group shouted, “Nulli Secundus.”

  As his fellow Brethren of the Coast toasted and roasted the latest additions to the famed order descended of the Templars, Dalton found no joy in the festivities. His thoughts centered on his wife, who had closeted herself in her chamber and eschewed their breakfast ritual, to his monumental disappointment. It was only when they were scheduled to depart for the family dinner that she appeared in the foyer.

  In the coach, as they drove to Upper Brooke Street, Daphne had not uttered a word, and she looked pale. And although Lady Amanda had planned a tempting menu with not one but three of Daphne’s favorite dishes, his bride had hardly ate a bite.

  “Shall we rejoin the women, as Cook prepared apple snow, and I am quite fond of it?” The admiral clapped twice, and the rowdy sailors quieted. “And Amanda and I have another announcement to make.”

  As usual, immature ribbing continued in the hall, and Dalton hugged the rear, given his sour mood. In the drawing room, the ladies chatted, and Daphne sat alone, near the hearth, gazing at the flames. He grabbed a cup of tea from the trolley and weaved his way to her.

  “For you, darling.” He was glad, when she accepted the steaming brew. “I missed you, this morning.”

  “I missed you, too.” She avoided his stare, which spoke volumes, and none of it boded well. “I wondered if I might—”

  “Our dear family, if we could have your attention, Mark and I would like to share a bit of news.” Lady Amanda peered at the admiral and nodded. “And we do hope you are thrilled for us.”

  “What Amanda is trying to tell you…we want you to…recently we discovered…oh, bloody hell.” The admiral snatched the brandy decanter from the trolley and drank from the bottle. The venerable naval legend wiped his mouth on his coat sleeve. “We are expecting our third child.”

  A chorus of gasps pierced the solitude.

  “But—how is that possible?” Everett blinked.

  “How do you think?” Admiral Douglas arched a brow, and Dalton was grateful for the distraction, as it afforded the opportunity to scrutinize his reticent bride.

  “Sorry.” Everett bowed his head.

  “Well I am impressed.” Trevor winked. “Did not know you still had it in you, old boy.”

  “Mama, are you all right?” Cara glanced at Sabrina. “I mean, is this normal?”

  “It is perfectly normal.” Lady Amanda laughed. “Upon my word, but why the long faces? My situation is not unheard of, and Dr. Handley assures me everything will be fine, if I am careful.”

  “And you will be very careful.” The admiral frowned. “In fact, I am taking you to the country, for the remainder of your confinement, as I would preserve your health and that of our unborn babe.”

  As the group digested the recent revelation, Dalton studied Daphne’s reaction. “You knew.”

  “Yes.” She clutched his hand and squeezed his fingers. “I guessed, when I visited her, after the contretemps with Lady Moreton and Lord Sheldon.”

  “You are excellent at keeping secrets.” When her smile faded, he said, “I am teasing, angel.”

  “Are you angry that I did not apprise you of the impending addition to their family tree?” Her countenance of concern gave him pause, as he realized that, despite her direct query, she was
asking in the general sense. “Have I displeased you?”

  “No, angel.” In his brain, he formulated a response intended to reassure her. “Everyone has secrets, but I value honesty. It is very easy to be angry with someone who lies to me, but it is difficult to be mad with someone who tells me the truth, however late.”

  “I understand, and I admire the sentiment.” Then she started. “What on earth is Blake about?”

  “We need a little levity in this somber lot, as it has grown far too serious for my taste.” Always the life of the party, Blake snickered, waggled his brows, and then gave the group his back. “What do you think of my new disguise for Buccaneers and Bluejackets, with my nephews?”

  The usually hotheaded duke pulled on a black hooded mask and charged Caroline, who cringed. “Blake, you can’t be serious. Welton will be three this November, and he is too young for such games.”

  A loud crash had Daphne jumping from the chair to stand at his side, and he noticed Rebecca had dropped her crystal dish of apple snow, and the delicate bowl shattered when it struck the tea service on the trolley, as she fixated on Blake. But it was her wide-eyed visage of terror that brought Dirk to her aid.

  “Becca, what is wrong?” Dirk eased her to the sofa, sat to her right, and draped an arm about her shoulders. “What is it?”

  “Varringdale.” At the former spy’s exclamation, Dalton shuddered.

  A double agent for the Counterintelligence Corps, Lord Varringdale had betrayed Rebecca and her partner in espionage, Collin Eddington. Varringdale had tortured Rebecca, and Dirk had killed the traitor, with his bare hands.

  “I apologize, Dirk.” Blake removed the mask and compressed his lips. “I meant no harm.”

  “It is all right.” Dirk cupped Rebecca’s chin, as she wept. “Talk to me. Tell me of your distress.”

  “Should we give you the room?” the admiral asked.

  “No.” With an upraised hand, Dirk shook his head, as he remained focused on Rebecca. “There is no shame in her tears.”

  For a while, Rebecca said nothing. Then she inhaled a shaky breath. “After I lost our baby, Varringdale tied me to a table. My wrists and ankles were strapped down, and another band, which was attached to a panel, crossed my forehead, so I could not move. When unlatched, the board dropped, which enabled him to pour a torrent of water over my nose and mouth. At one point, he draped my face with a cloth, and I was certain I would drown, as I eventually lost consciousness.”

  “Hell and the Reaper.” In a low voice, Dirk inquired, “And is that what haunts you, in your nightmares?

  Rebecca nodded and then broke.

  “I figured as much.” Dirk lifted her to his lap. “And now that I know the whole of your trauma, we can fight your demons together, sweetheart.”

  “I am so sorry, as I should have told you,” Rebecca cried. “I should not have kept the details from you.”

  “You did it to spare my feelings.” Dirk caressed his wife’s cheek. “So there are no apologies necessary, love.”

  As had the other Brethren husbands, Dalton pulled Daphne into his embrace, and she shivered. Regardless of their difficulties, he needed to hold her. Never had he comprehended the depth of Dirk’s fury, in regard to Rebecca’s ordeal, until that moment. Until that second, when he imagined someone hurting Daphne.

  The urge to protect her, to keep her safe from harm, was compelling. Of course, she was no spy, and no turncoat stalked her, but he could not tolerate the mere thought of someone harming his wife. It made him angry.

  “Dalton, I want to go home.” Daphne burrowed into his chest. “I wish to return to Portsea Island.”

  Stunned by her declaration, because he had presumed she referenced their townhouse, he knew not how to respond. “Admiral, could you have your man bring around our carriage?”

  “Of course.” The admiral signaled the butler.

  Myriad possibilities echoed in his brain, as Dalton feared she planned to leave him. By the time they had collected their gloves and outerwear, he was submerged in a miasma of confusion mixed with pain. But no matter what she asked of him, he vowed to bear it. He would neither shout nor rave. He would relent. He would accept her choice, if only to make her happy.

  When Daphne shifted in the squabs to lean against him, he kissed her crown of curls, and she said, “Dirk and Rebecca have known so much sadness.”

  “More than anyone deserves.” The clip-clop of the team beat in harmony with his pulse, and dread permeated his muscles. What would he do without his backwater bride? How would he persist without her? “But they have survived, because they work as a couple.”

  “And he supports her, without condition.” She snuggled close. “Even though she hid the full extent of her torture from him.”

  “Well, Dirk loves Rebecca.” And Dalton believed he felt the same for Daphne, but he remained uncertain. “And as I said before, all that matters is she told him the truth.”

  When the carriage halted, he handed Daphne to the sidewalk. Various propositions danced on his tongue, and he considered offering her a brandy. Then again, she had choked on the amber intoxicant the last time she had consumed it, so he nixed the idea. Perhaps she would have preferred a glass of wine, or he could order a pot of tea.

  In the foyer, he nodded an acknowledgement to Merton.

  “How was your evening, sir?” The butler hung Dalton’s coat on the hall tree.

  “Interesting.” That was putting it mildly. Then it dawned on him that his wife often requested warm milk before retiring. Though the prospect seemed not so palatable, he would sacrifice his stomach if it afforded him the chance to persuade her to stay in London. In that instant, Dalton turned to discover Daphne gone.

  THE LUCKY ONE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Marching into her guest room, Daphne crossed the floor and walked straight to her armoire. After a brief search, she located the reticule in which she had hidden the ominous notes. In the long mirror, she caught sight of her reflection, and she studied her appearance for signs of her distress.

  Had Dalton detected her unrest? Had he suspected her of deceit? Given Rebecca’s revelations, and Dirk and Dalton’s reaction to her sin of omission, Daphne had everything to gain by taking a stand. So she had nothing to lose by making her confession, and she had tarried long enough. Once again, she would trust her husband and bare her soul. She would share her secrets, she would withhold nothing, and he would help her. With conviction as a shield, she trudged forth.

  But the walk to his apartments seemed never-ending.

  Without knocking, she twisted the knob and entered his sanctuary, which she had never visited. In stark contrast to the remainder of his bachelor lodging, Dalton’s private apartment sported his favorite sapphire shade trimmed in mahogany. Absent the excess knickknacks, his personal surroundings boasted only nautical tools, some of which appeared ancient. And, to her abiding delight, the small framed assortment of yellow horned poppy, red valerian, viper’s bugloss, and sea radish, which she had created to commemorate the first time he accompanied her on her morning jaunts, held pride of place on a small stand, atop his bedside table. That sight, alone, girded her resolve.

  Voices from the closet snared her attention, and she cleared her throat. “Dalton, are you there?”

  “Daphne?” Wearing his breeches, boots, and shirt, which sat open at the throat, Dalton emerged from behind an oriental screen. “What are you doing here?”

  “I need to speak with you.” With fists at her side, she vowed to prevail.

  “Right now?” Her husband appeared shocked, as he blinked.

  “Yes.” Before her confidence faltered, she took two steps, as she would not be denied. “This very instant.”

  “Can it not wait until the morning?” With a mighty frown, he folded his arms. “You have my word, as a gentleman, I would honor your request, whatever you require.”

  “No.” She advanced further into his domain, as, in the spirit of the Brethren wives, she would not be reb
uffed.

  “All right.” To her chagrin, he retreated, but her concerns were allayed, when Dalton said, “You are dismissed, Bowling. I shall see to the rest, myself.”

  Nervous, Daphne chewed her lip and tapped her foot, until her husband returned. For several seconds, they just stared at each other. In no uncertain terms, she had the floor, but the perfect entreaty failed her.

  At last, her knight sighed. “Angel, what are you about?”

  Silent, she thrust the bundled letters at him.

  “What is this?” He untied the twine and flipped through the envelopes. “But this correspondence is addressed to you. Yet you wish me to read them?”

  Fear locked as a vise about her throat, so she nodded her assent and prayed for strength.

  Shifting his weight, he unfolded the top note, perused the brief but disturbing content, and snapped to attention. In rapid succession, he digested the remaining three missives and then pierced her with his stare. “Where did you get these?”

  “The first two were delivered to Randolph House.” Wringing her fingers, she cursed the urge to weep. “The third was redirected to Courtenay Hall, after our wedding.”

  “Which I unwittingly conveyed to you.” Dalton closed his eyes and bowed his head. “Over breakfast, after our stroll among the dunes.”

  “Yes,” she said in a small voice. “And the fourth arrived yesterday.”

  “Which is why you canceled our dinner, retired early, and cried yourself to sleep.” He tossed the stationary to his bed and paced.

  Shocked by his revelation, she gasped. “How did you know?”

  “Because I sat with you into the wee hours.” He halted and confronted her. “Why did you not tell me someone had threatened my wife? Do you imagine I will stand idly by while an unknown villain assaults you? How dare they.”

  As he ranted and raved, Daphne heard nothing but his simple yet compelling admission, over and over, as a sweet refrain.

  Because I sat with you into the wee hours.